A Soufflé of Suspicion Read online

  “Why do they argue about love all the time?” Philomena asked.

  “Cats?”

  “My parents.”

  I eyed her folks, who continued to go at it.

  “Love this and love that,” she intoned. “And money. They’re always arguing about money.”

  “Parents quarrel sometimes,” I said, wondering, more to the point, why they were hashing it out in public. Renee had taken on Allie in public. Maybe the prevailing winds were triggering emotional friction. “That doesn’t mean they aren’t in love,” I went on. “They have different opinions on certain subjects.”

  “I will never argue. Ever. I have a boyfriend and we’re going to be nice to each other forever. We’ve made a pinky pact not to fight.”

  A pinky pact. How sweet.

  She lifted her lackluster hair with one hand and let it drop. “Money isn’t everything, you know?” She scooped some ice cream into her mouth and double-licked the spoon.

  “I do know that fighting about money can put a crimp in relationships.” I wouldn’t tell her how my adventuresome husband had snowed me into believing in his dreams. When he fell from that peak in Nepal and died, he’d left me with a ton of climbing equipment and a mountain of debt. Bankrupt and bereft, I had returned to Nouvelle Vie to start my life over. I was glad I had. “You and your boyfriend will have to see where life takes you. One day at a time.”

  “Life isn’t always fair,” Philomena muttered.

  “True that,” I said in teenlike fashion.

  A blur of black darted between us.

  I whooped with shock. “Scooter!”

  “Was that a kitty?” Philomena asked, pure innocence returning to her tone.

  “A cat that is trouble with a capital T.”

  “Some people say black cats bring bad luck. I don’t believe it. I think they’re beautiful and exciting.” Philomena’s eyes shimmered with enthusiasm for an instant, but the light quickly dimmed. “But what do I know? My parents tell me I’m too young to know anything.”

  Poor girl. At least I’d had the total support of my parents as a teen. I patted her slim arm. She brightened at my touch.

  “Come with me,” I said. “I need to track down some raspberry sorbet.”

  * * *

  Later, I returned to the bistro to find the place hopping. Every table was filled, and there was a line of customers waiting outside. None of the diners inside seemed to mind how packed it was, maybe because the mirrors on the walls made the area feel larger. I loved how they reflected the warm twinkle from the lights in the bronze-finished, candelabra-style chandeliers. I also appreciated that I could see pretty much every angle of the bistro via the mirrors and know in an instant when a customer needed something.

  Heather, in a black sheath with her hair swooped into an updo with dangling tendrils, beckoned me to the hostess podium. “You’re late,” she said with a grin.

  “You’re early. What’s going on? Are we having a sale?”

  “Didn’t you get the text I sent?” She consulted her cell phone that was tucked into a pocket of the podium. “Ooh, it never transmitted. Anyway, we had to set up two seatings for lunch because so many people wanted reservations, plus we have two full seatings booked for dinner. It’s the festival and Crush Week’s fault. Do you mind?”

  “Mind? No.” The more the merrier. I did a quick head count to make sure we had enough supplies to feed the crowd. If we ran low, I could always raid the pantry at Maison Rousseau. We only served breakfast there. “How is Chef C holding up?” I asked.

  “She’s in her element. You know she loves a challenge.”

  “I smell rosemary and cloves.”

  “Yes, you do. One of today’s specials is beef bourguignon.”

  Since the festival was focusing on sweets, we had decided the bistro should focus on savory dishes. To compliment the choices, I had stocked up on Pinot Noirs, Merlots, Zinfandels, and Cabernets, not that a white wine couldn’t go with piquant meals, but I’d noticed that diners perused the red wine side of the menu whenever heartier entrées were offered.

  “I’m going to nab a serving of today’s special before it disappears,” I said.

  After locking my purse in my office desk, I strolled to the kitchen. I dished up a plate of the beef bourguignon, settled on a stool at the farmhouse-style table, and lit into my meal. Every bite was delightful, the cloves offering an added depth to the sauce.

  The lunch hour zipped by. The afternoon, too. By the time the second round of dinner guests were peering at menus, I was spent. I covered my mouth to stifle a yawn and spotted a woman across the room waving at me. I recognized her from the festival—Allie O’Malley, the doughy-faced woman with the lion’s mane of hair. She had changed into a mocha-brown long-sleeved dress and was dining alone. A book rested to the left of her plate. Was it a primer on how to wage a court battle? She beckoned me with a finger and offered a bright smile. How could I refuse?

  I drew near and said, “Nice to see you. Enjoying your meal?”

  “Mm-hm.” She sopped up the rest of her beef bourguignon sauce with a wedge of bread, popped it into her mouth, and swallowed. “What’s not to like? The seasonings are perfectly balanced. The sauce has exactly the right texture. It’s superb.”

  “The chef will be pleased to hear that.”

  Upon closer inspection, I noted the book on the table was a cookbook—to be specific, a cookie and muffin cookbook with an exceedingly long name. An envelope marked a section in the book. Was it the envelope containing the disputed contract? I was curious what Renee had written on it.

  “Are you entering the muffin competition?” I indicated the book.

  “Me? No.” Her cheeks flushed. “I can’t read a novel when I’m in a restaurant. There are too many delicious distractions. So I bone up on food.” She frowned—not at me. She was looking past me.

  I spun to see what had turned her happy face upside-down. Renee, in her sporty red-striped dress, was exiting the kitchen. Muted choruses of “There she is” and “She’s the one” resounded from the customers.

  Chef C emerged from the kitchen, too. Her chin was dusted with flour. Her eyes gleamed with energy. She hugged Renee. “See you later.”

  “You bet.” Renee kissed her sister on both cheeks and weaved through the tables toward the exit. She caught sight of me and headed my way. She hesitated when she realized I was conversing with Allie, but she forced a smile and continued toward us. “Mimi,” she said, snubbing Allie. “Aren’t you thrilled with the turnout?”

  I nodded. “The festival has been a boon to our business.”

  “It’s all about getting the word out and enticing the right mix of people to attend.” Renee shot a triumphant look at Allie. “Some people have a gift for that sort of thing; others don’t.”

  I didn’t peek at Allie, but I could feel her seething. Waves of angry heat wafted my way. Why is Renee being so rude? I wondered. She had won. Be gracious, I telegraphed to her. She missed or ignored the message.

  “I am dying for a sweet,” Renee said, “so I’m going home to try my hand at something new.”

  “Home to the farm?” Allie asked. “Where you belong?”

  “To my sister’s place.”

  “I’ll bet Chef C doesn’t know what she’s in for,” Allie sniped.

  Oho. Two can play the rudeness game, I thought.

  “Renee,” I said, trying to deflect the tension, “didn’t you like what our kitchen had to offer?”

  “It’s not that. It’s…” A curious look crossed her face. “I’ve got something special in mind.” She did her best to suppress a smile.

  Allie snorted. “Good luck with that!” To me she said, “Renee isn’t a cook.”

  “I will be. I’m learning.” Renee jutted her chin and added as she retreated, “See you tomorrow.”

  “Not if I can help it,” Allie muttered.

  I cut her a look. She offered a tart smile, then pulled her wallet from her purse. I signaled her wai
tress for the check and made a tour of the bistro, making sure the rest of the customers were satisfied.

  An hour later, I headed home. Since I was craving something sweet, too, the moment I entered the cottage I switched on the oven. Once a month, I made a batch of vanilla bean sugar cookie batter, which I portioned into small containers and stored in the freezer. That way, whenever I had a hunger for a quickie dessert, I could pull a container from the freezer, let the dough thaw for a few minutes, drop one to two cookies onto a cookie sheet, and voilà, enjoy fresh cookies without the fuss.

  As I waited for the cookies to bake—the aroma of vanilla permeating my kitchen was blissful—I toured the cottage and took note of chores I needed to do: mop the bathroom floor, dust under the sofa in the living room, scour the sink. A maid from the inn usually came in once a week to do a cursory cleaning, although she’d missed this week, but in twenty minutes, how much could she really do? I had decorated my tiny abode in wine country colors: stylish taupe with burgundy and moss-green accents. I loved the gas fireplace, which was spotless because I hadn’t used it since I’d cleaned it at the end of the previous winter. Next week, when the temperatures dropped, I would find time to nestle into my comfy sofa with a good book and enjoy a toasty fire.

  I paused at the living room window and glimpsed outside. The goldfish ogled me as they often did, noses pressed to the glass of their tank. I imagined their conversation: What is our silly human doing? Beats me. I was making sure there were no intruders—not because Napa Valley was a high-crime location (it wasn’t) but because living in San Francisco had taught me to keep one eye and one ear open at all times. Plus, the encounter with a killer last June had made me wary.

  Something scratched the front door. I glanced out the peephole. No one was there. I bent down and peeked through the cat’s-height peephole that I’d installed after the encounter in June. Scooter was standing there, tail rigid. Was he checking up on me? That was Scoundrel’s job. I opened the door. Scooter bolted inside. I scanned the area for his ladylove, but she was nowhere in sight. She wasn’t with Heather because the kittens had been weaned. Where was she?

  “Well, hello, fella. Want to introduce yourself?” I crouched and held my arms open. He didn’t move into them. He eyeballed the goldfish, gave them a haughty swish of his tail, and continued deeper into the cottage. He scoped out the bedroom. Seconds later, he toured the small living room. After a long moment, he peered at me with wide eyes.

  “Hungry?” I asked. Heather fed the cats outside the bistro’s kitchen, but I had a few kibble treats on hand. I gathered some and set them on the floor. Scooter ignored them and scampered to a spot beneath the table in the dining nook of the kitchen. He curled into a ball and instantly fell asleep.

  “Well, I’ll be,” I said. Scoundrel had never settled down in my place. Ever. Maybe Scooter wasn’t a mouser. Maybe he was a stray that had lost his family. Poor guy.

  The timer on the stove buzzed. A split second later, my cell phone jangled. Scooter raised his head, alert for danger.

  “It’s okay, fella.” I donned an oven mitt, whisked open the oven door, and removed the tray of cookies. Then I nabbed my cell phone and answered it. “Hello?”

  “Mimi!” Chef C cried. “It is horrible. Tragique!”

  “What’s wrong?” My heart chug-a-lugged. She never panicked.

  “It is Renee. She is…” She sucked back a sob. “She is dead. She has been murdered. In my kitchen. Come quickly. Please!”

  Chapter 4

  Twenty minutes later, I stood in the living room of my chef’s Victorian house waiting for the sheriff’s department to show up. Since I’d arrived, I hadn’t stopped staring into the kitchen with its white Corian counters and white kitchen table and chairs. I didn’t want to enter, afraid of disturbing evidence. The moment I’d seen Renee lying facedown on the hardwood floor, one arm stretched toward the cabinets, the skirt of her red-striped dress bunched around her legs, her head bashed with a countertop mixer, I’d telephoned the sheriff.

  “Camille, I’m so sorry,” I murmured.

  “Merci.”

  She was perched on the front of an oak rocking chair in her living room, wearing what she typically wore to work—a collared white shirt, black pants, and black clogs. She was hugging herself. Her hair was askew. Beside the chair stood a reading lamp and an end table stacked with cookbooks with titles I recognized. Forties-style music was playing on a CD player. A lit candle sat in the middle of the coffee table in front of the all-white sofa.

  After I’d contacted the sheriff, Camille had filled me in on her exact movements. She had entered the house, seen her sister, and dropped the groceries she was carrying. The bag lay on the floor near the front door. Goop from broken eggs oozed out of it. She telephoned me. When I asked her why she hadn’t dialed 911 first, she said she had automatically clicked speed-dial on her cell phone, seen my name, and stabbed it.

  “What’s all that?” I indicated the debris on the kitchen and living room floors, which included seeds, a feather or two, and snippets of paper.

  “I told you my sister was a slob,” Camille replied. “She tracked gunk home from the festival as well as from The Bookery, I imagine. If you recall, the inn was having a celebration.”

  “I remember.”

  “I have a Swiffer mop, which works best on hardwood, but would Renee think to…” Camille covered her mouth. Between parted fingers, she mumbled, “I am a monster. Speaking ill of my poor sweet sister.” She lowered her hand. Her eyes grew misty.

  “Tell me about her,” I said, trying to get her mind onto happier thoughts.

  A soft smile graced Camille’s lips. “Renee was always a prankster. When we were children, she liked to hide things in my bed to scare me. Creatures and bird nests and ticklish toys.”

  “Sounds like something Scoundrel would do.”

  “Renee short-sheeted my bed one time. I remember getting so angry. I thought”—she hesitated and gestured to the crime scene—“she was fooling me tonight. I thought she had staged this. The mixer. The mess. She liked horror movies. I do not.” Camille shook her head.

  “It appears she was getting ready to bake something.” I recalled Renee telling Allie and me that she intended to try her hand at making something sweet. Allie had implied that she would fail before Renee strutted out.

  A variety of items sat on the counter: a recipe card, bittersweet chocolate, a cube of butter, a canister of sugar, and espresso coffee. “Soufflé, perhaps?” I asked.

  “Oui. I was going to teach her when I got home.”

  “She mentioned that.”

  There was also a tipped-over canister. A couple of tablespoons of flour dusted the floor by the cabinet. Had Renee reached for the container to use as a weapon?

  “I gave her the recipe card. I told her I would pick up eggs right after work. You saw how she hurried out of the bistro. She was so excited.” Camille sighed. “Alas, she did not wait for me to get started.” She rubbed her arms up and down.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No. I am miserable.” She stopped rubbing.

  “You left work when I did, an hour ago.”

  “Yes, but I went to the store, and—”

  A siren whooped outside. A second higher-pitched siren bleated. Whirling red lights flashed through the windows. Two cars pulled to a stop, the sirens ceased, and doors slammed.

  Camille rose to her feet. I drew near and slung an arm around her.

  Seconds later, Sergeant Tyson Daly rapped on the screen door and, without invitation, entered the house. Tyson, who was dating Jo, was a Napa County sheriff contracted by the town of Yountville, but he wasn’t in uniform tonight. He was wearing a Pendleton shirt, jeans, and boots. His Buffalo Bill Cody–style goatee and mustache were trimmed and neat, but his flaxen hair with its distinctive gray streak was as unruly as if he’d driven with the windows wide open. A female Asian deputy in an official uniform, her black hair secured in a hairband, followed him inside. She let the
screen door close with a bang.

  “Good evening, ladies,” Tyson said, finger-combing his hair. “Chef C, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Camille said.

  “EMTs are on their way. Crush Week traffic is a bear.”

  “My sister … Renee … was like that when I…” Camille pointed at the body. “I have not touched anything. Neither has Mimi. We—”

  Tyson held up a hand. “I’ll ask questions in a moment.” He concentrated his attention on the crime scene. With great care, he took off his boots, slipped sterile booties over his black socks, and strode into the kitchen.

  Doing his best not to disturb anything, he checked Renee’s pulse. He released her wrist, retraced his steps to the living room, and suggested that the deputy, who had donned sterile booties as well, take photographs of the crime scene.

  She entered the kitchen and, using a digital Nikon camera, started taking pictures from every angle.

  “Why would someone kill her?” Fresh tears pooled in Camille’s eyes. She blotted them with her fingertips before they could fall. “Who did this?”

  “We’re going to find out. I promise.”

  “Allie O’Malley fought with Renee earlier,” I blurted. “She owned the festival before Renee—”

  “Got it.” Tyson pulled a notepad fitted with a pen from his rear pocket and jotted a note.

  “She can’t have been dead for long, Sergeant,” I said. Although Tyson and I were friends, whenever he was serving in his official capacity, I addressed him by his title. “She left the bistro during the second dinner seating. Is her body warm?”

  Tyson stroked his goatee. “Is Chef Mimi, with her keen eye for detail, going to recap the scene for me?”

  “Keen eye…” I glowered at him. “You know that’s not what I…” I jammed my lips together. A few months ago, I’d told Tyson that chefs were natural-born sleuths. We naturally broke apart recipes flavor by flavor. I hadn’t expected him to throw my own words in my face.